


Bloody Hell, I Need Tea

by SherlockMalfoy



Series: Sherlock!Wizardverse Drabble Sets [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Magic, Time Travel, Wizards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:16:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockMalfoy/pseuds/SherlockMalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Due to the arrival (and departure) of an unexpected house guest just days after their wedding, John and Sherlock remember that summer differently from how it actually happened. But it was for their own good. This is that summer with that house guest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OMC = Angelo Tobias Watson-Holmes is the 4th child of Sherlock and John. Not that it's important to the story, he's a Hufflepuff.

John hadn’t noticed it.  
      Of course he hadn’t.  
      He was too busy with with the man in his lap. Too busy teasing the flesh just under the edge of the purple shirt. That damnable purple shirt that was now slowly being unbuttoned. Above him, his husband moaned as John leaned forward, pressing lips to skin as it was exposed. His hands now gently sliding up and over shoulders, pushing the shirt back and off.  
      Sherlock had noticed it.  
      Of course he had.  
      He always noticed everything. But as he raised his hands to bury his fingers in that sandy hair. Lips parted in a moan as he was distracted from the footsteps on the stairs. He recalled, briefly, Mrs. Hudson warning them about renting the attic to a lovely young college couple. He’d said it wouldn’t last the year. She had chastised him-  
      Oh. Distraction. John’s hands had slid down his sides, fingers bent just so. Nails dragging across his bare skin before firm hands took hold of his backside and squeezed. He bucked against him, gripping John’s bare shoulders to keep steady.  
      Then a click. Tumblers of a lock falling into and out of place.  
      Skin pressed against skin. His head thrown back as another moan passed his lips, neck exposed and John’s mouth nipping and biting.  
      The doorknob jiggled. The door opened with a creak.  
      ”For the love of Merlin!”  
      They froze.  
      John was well aware of the location of his hands. The half-dressed state of the both of them as Sherlock’s head whipped around. Angry eyes anylizing the body in the doorway before he growled. Yes, a low, terrible sound from deep in his chest that John had only ever heard when his nymph thought someone had overstepped their bounds and threatened to steal away John’s attentions.  
      John stared straight ahead, right at Sherlock’s throat. Right at the red marks he’d just put there. An irrational part of his mind believed that if he sat perfectly still, and didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound then whatever was going on would stop. Would simply go away.  
      Sherlock snarled John’s sentiment. “Go. Away.”  
      ”Bloody hell. If you weren’t going to pick me up from the train station, you could have bloody called! I mean really! Could have sent Myc or Molls! Hell, I’d settle for Harry if she was worth the powder to blow her to hell. Honestly… really. THIS was more important? It couldn’t be a bloody case, could it? Nope. Just having a go on the sofa!”  
      The boy picked up the cage at his feet, put his hand on his small trunk behind him and carried them both up the stairs.  
      Once the child had gone, John let go of th breath he was holding. “Sher?”  
      But John was ignored as his husband’s mind went into overdrive.

  
      **Blonde hair. Length to shoulders.Height 4 feet 5 inches. Weight approximately 5 stone. Underweight for that height. Age placed approximately between 11 and 13. Clothing choice - black graphic tee depicting guitars. 3. Black and white. Short sleeved with a white shirt just barely visible beneath at the neckline. Two belts. One to hold up his jeans, ripped at the left knee, natural wear and tear rather than by design. The other belt for deocration only. Matches the wide cuff on his left wrist, and the thinner bracelet. Both real leather. Also black. Yellow rubber bracelet. Commonly associated with causes. A thin black one as well. Right wrist - one pink. One white. Same as the yellow. Another thin black one. Lots of black. Not depressed. Fashon statement. Common among that particular age group.**

  
      Sherlock climbed off John, what they were caught doing already forgotten as he worked out in seconds the boy that had appeared in their doorway. With keys.

  
      **Keys… To _their_ door. Words spoken with familiarity. Recognized them, even. Other names mentioned. Myc - His own name for Mycroft. Used to annoy the politician. Molls… Occasional name for Molly Hooper which John uses when still half asleep. Harry. Female pronouns. John’s sister. Blond. Short. Crass.**

  
      ”Did Harriet adopt someone and not tell you?”  
      John was willing his body to get back under his control as footsteps stomped around the room above.  
      “…No…” John ventured. “What the bloody hell-“  
      ” _Bloody hell_. You use that expression a lot.” Sherlock was buttoning up his shirt now, looking around the flat before the stomping stopped. He’d said if calling up a fact for further observation.  
      Footsteps bounded down the stairs. “Where the bloody hell did everything go?!”  
      John had just gotten his emotions and hormones back under his own control. Mostly. “What the bloody hell?! Who the bloody hell?!”  
      The boy stared at John, then narrowed his grey eyes.

  
       **Grey eyes. Keys to this flat. Language patterns similar to but not identical to John Watson. Overly familiar disposition despite never meeting previously.**

  
      John looked from the boy to Sherlock. Then back again. That same steely gaze. He could see their minds working at the same time. One working through the evidence. The other trying to figure out what strange world he’d stumbled into.  
      ”Oh god,” the boy said at last, and John saw the familiar _I just figured it out and I don’t like the answer_ look that he occasionally saw on Sherlock’s face when working on a rather troubling case.  
      At the same time Sherlock gave a small, subtle nod as if acknowledging the same conclusion.  
      ”Will someone tell me what’s going on? You’ve both got that face, and I really don’t like that face because clearly I have no fucking clue-“  
      ”Language, John,” Sherlock chided.  
      ”No. I will not-“  
      ”Yes. You will,” Sherlock said in a quiet, even tone, then louder added. “I suppose you know where John keeps the tea.”


	2. Chapter 2

The boy sat uncomfortably on a fold- up chair. John was in his old, comfortable chair while Sherlock was seated on the back of his, bare feet in the seat. He was leaning forward, hands pressed together beneath his chin. His classic thinking pose.  
      The boy sipped his tea.

  
       **Taken with milk. No sugar.**

  
      Sherlock’s sat untouched on the nearby table. John sipped his own, but watched the two of them from over the rim.  
      Eventually, the boy spoke. “Well… Guess that explains why everything is so damned retro.”  
      Sherlock moved his hands to rest on his knees and sat up straighter. “Start at the beginning,” never taking his eyes off the boy.  
      The kid drew in a deep breath and gave a slow nod. “In all honesty, I can’t exactly tell you what happened. I wasn’t paying complete attention at the time. And yes, I know. It’s important to know your surroundings. To observe everything taking place around you. Because you may miss a vital piece of data crucial to the case at hand.” He sipped from his tea again and leaned back against the chair. “I was texting-” He stopped suddenly. The brief flicker of uncertainty in his eyes did not go unnoticed.  
      ”Everything,” Sherlock said calmly. John nodded along.  
      ”I can’t… well. I can, but it wouldn’t be- I mean, if I told you- My even being here-“  
      John leaned forward, setting his cup down and giving the boy a warm, relaxed smile. “Just do what you can.” Sherlock made a bored huffing sound before rolling his eyes.  
      ”Well, I was texting _someone_ for advice. My watch broke when I was at school, and I’d been trying to fix it all week. I couldn’t go home with it smashed to pieces. It was… special. Dad would have had a fit.” He fidgeted on his chair. “I’d tried the typical repair spells, of course-“  
      ”So you’re a wizard?” John interrupted. The boy nodded.  
      Then he continued as Sherlock listened quietly. “Well, they wouldn’t work. So I texted for advice on what to do. Everything was fine until that damnable Natasha Burkhart came blundering into my compartment. The Aussie git tried to take my phone while I was in the middle of a delicate part of the repair work. Frightened, I cast the first spell I could think of, which had rebounded off my phone and, well… Natasha was gone. I returned to work on the watch. Thankfully fixed it, and got off the Hogwarts train as normal.  
      ”When no one was there to pick me up, I had assumed you two were attending to more important matters. Meaning more than likely a case, despite the fact you’ve been officially retired for nearly six years.” He looked to Sherlock. “I hadn’t expected you alone because you’re never arsed enough to go to the train station by yourself unless it’s for a case.”  
      ”True enough,” John commented, and then the boy’s grey eyes were on John like a hawk.  
      ”But you always pick me up. And always have tea with you. With the exception of third year, when Myc broke his hip and you were stuck trying to convince him that the British Government could survive without him for a few weeks. So, waiting around like a git and not able to reach anyone with my phone I decided to catch a taxi. But… I’m a bit short. Hard to do, so I legged it a bit. Caught a bus. Then the underground. Gave a poor old woman on the high street a fright, and here I am.”  
      Sherlock was listening, but also paying close attention to the way the boy spoke. The infections of his voice. Observing his mannerisms. The way he brushed the hair out of his face. The way he sat and fidgeted. The way he allowed himself to be picked apart and observed, as if he knew it was inevitable.  
      Because he did know.  
      And he handled it quite well for a boy his age…  
      ”How old are you?”  
      The boy finished his tea and held the empty cup in his lap. “Sixteen. Yeah, a bit small. Dad says I’ll at least have another growth spurt before 21, but… I’m not so sure. Even if I do, I’ll be lucky to gain another inch or two. Or, if I’m really lucky, I’ll turn out to be some sort of creature thing that’ll give me an added height boost. But I’m not getting my hopes up on that one.”  
      ”What spell did you use?”  
      ” _Carpe Retractum_ ,” he said, then added. “…And I may have also had a tempus charm cast… to keep track of time since, you know, my watch was broken.”  
      Sherlock nodded like it was all he needed to hear and stood. Then he stepped from the chair to the floor. “You will occupy the sofa tonight. John will put a cot in the upstairs room tomorrow.”  
      John looked at his husband in disbelief. Rare, even these days. “Really? Just like that? We don’t know anything about him!”  
      ”Once more John… You were _listening_ -“  
      “But you didn’t _hear_ ,” the boy completed.  
      ”Name?” Sherlock asked him.  
      ”Best to call me **Toby**. I don’t want to throw anything off more than I already have.”  
      ”What did I miss? Because clearly, the two of you-“  
      ”John, I’d have thought you would have learned by now-“  
      ”He never does,” Toby piped up.  
      Sherlock hummed. “Good to know.”  
      ”I’ll… I’ll do the washing up then,” the boy said, quickly taking John’s cup and Sherlock’s untouched one and heading straight for the kitchen. Within seconds, water was rushing from the faucet and the two men could hear the tinkling sounds of ceramic in the sink.  
      John was giving Sherlock a hard look, the one he wore when demanding explanations. Sherlock groaned and flopped himself across John’s lap, letting his legs drape over one side of the chair and an arm over the other. His other arm was pressed between them as he got himself more comfortable. “Sher… not-“  
      ”Don’t panic,” Sherlock said. “I’m just relaxing.”  
      ”Yes. And there’s a tiny sixteen year old boy in our kitchen doing the dishes.”  
      ”He’s seen worse.”  
      ”That may be, but it’s just not apropriate.”  
      Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. “John, don’t be a prude.”  
      ”Then explain to me-“  
      ”Obviously you really are thick when it comes to certain things. That tiny sixteen year old boy in our kitchen doing the dishes is our child, newly returned from Hogwarts for the summer holiday. He has miscast a spell, and it backfired into a charm to tell the time. He has accidentally traveled backwards, arriving here, in 2016.”  
      ” _Time travel_? Honestly? This isn’t **Doctor Who** , Sherlock.”  
      The detective pinched the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh. This was going to take a much more in-depth explanation. “Suffice to say for the moment,” Sherlock started, “that it were possible in some remote corner of reality. He is here, displaced in time by pure accident, with no way to replicate the conditions of the original occurance until September 1st. Can you, in all honesty, turn away a confused child with a deep rooted resentment, it seems, for Australian girls that cause him trouble? The only people he knows do not know anything of his existence. The only places he knows are not in the same state he knows them as, or even in existence yet.” He paused for effect.  
      And John knew what Sherlock was doing. Playing the head against the heart. Preying on his conscience and playing his heartstrings like he played his violin.  
      At last, when Sherlock opened his mouth to speak again, John cut in. “You know damn well I couldn’t. You insufferable bastard.”  
      Sherlock gave him a thin smile. “And yet you married me.”  
      It was John’s turn to give a smile. Very amused. Very wicked as his eyes cut towards the kitchen. “Hey Toby,” he called. “Which one of us is mum?”  
      ”Oh, Sherlock of course,” the boy called back. “Biologically.” The boy reappeared from the kitchen with that smug look that John would later come to describe as simply Holmesian. “But you’re the one that does  the domestic stuff.” Then, Toby glanced around. “Looks like you always did, apparently. Well, that’s one answer I can take home to the nest.”  
      Sherlock looked at John. John looked at Sherlock. Together they looked at the boy who was looking around with a tea towel in his hands, drying them off before draping it over his shoulder and examining the skull on the mantle.  
      ”How many of you… are there?”  
      ”Oh?” he said as if surprised by the question. The boy thought hard for a moment. He couldn’t give away too much. Not even his first name. But… He could give them this. Something to ponder. Something that wasn’t exactly definative, not from their points of view. “Between two and five,” he said. “So this is what Phil looked like before the crayons.”


	3. Chapter 3

Days had passed and the three of them had settled into a routine.  
      John would ask questions because he was curious.  
      Toby would give answers that were incorrect but amusing.  
      Sherlock would point out he was lying.  
      Toby would lock himself in the upstairs lab turned half guest room.  
      Sherlock would want tea.  
      Toby had locked himself in… with the kettle.  
      John would make Sherlock apologize because he wanted tea, too.  
      Toby would eventually come out of the room and make himself a cup of tea.  
      Then retreat back up to the room…  
      Again with the kettle.  
      It was a vicious cycle. One that all three stubborn men were unwilling to break.  
      That was, until Mrs. Hudson got involved.  
      ”I should have known that boy was one of you,” the old woman had said as if she really should have known all along. “Gave me a fright on the high street a few days ago.”  
      ”Sorry,” he said, head down as if ashamed. And he was, a bit. He’d tossed his pet’s cage at her, told her to hold it for a minute, and then proceeded to shout abuse at a pole for a full minute before taking the cage back and trotting along his way as if nothing had happened. “I didn’t know _you_ were Mrs. Hudson.” His words were quiet, so as to make sure Sherlock and John couldn’t hear.  
      ”Oh?” she asked, then opened her arms. “Now now dear. It’s alright.” And Toby shuffled towards her, letting her hug him to her like an old grandmother. “I just wish you two had told me you were having a guest over.”  
      ”Ah… yeah. Sorry. He just kinda turned up,” John said, looking to Sherlock to see how they were going to handle this one. They were, after all, stuck with the boy until September.  
      Sherlock had thought it over and was well prepared. “Had we known sooner that John’s illigitimate child would turn up on our doorstep, we would have informed you straight away.”  
      The boy cast a confused look towards him, but John just shook his head and gave his best _just go with it_ faces. Toby seemed to understand and did just that. “Yeah,” he said, pulling away from Mrs. Hudson and surrendering the kettle. “Mum, uh… Well, she passed. And I was left with these really horrible relatives. And when I found out they were going to shift me off to my aunt in America, I couldn’t bear the thought of never getting to meet my dad.”  
      Oh, he was laying it on thick. He gave the old woman a wide eyed and pitiful look. He added a lip quiver for added effect. Mrs. Hudson gave a “oh you poor little dear!” and embraced him again. Sherlock gave just the hint of a smile when Toby’s face was crushed to the old woman’s bosom. John was red faced and uncomfortable, rubbing the inside of his wedding band nervously as Mrs. Hudson let the boy go, insisting that she bring the three of them up a fresh batch of cookies, or some cake.  
      When they finally managed to get her to leave them alone an hour and thirty-nine minutes later, John was at last able to make himself a proper cup of tea with his kettle. “You couldn’t have come up with a better lie?”  
      Sherlock was seated at the table, eyes affixed to his microscope that had been pulled out after his lab room had been turned into a temporary guest quarters. “It was a logical option. It is a well known fact that you are my only lasting relationship. Before you, there were superficial dates for cases, gathering information and working undercover only. And I could not physically-“  
      ”Yes yes, I know. But not the whole world knows that.”  
      ”Taking into account the child’s age, it could be assumed he was conceived very shortly before you had been deployed to Afghanistan. Or, at the latest, while you were on leave. Your absence in his life is therefore explained by the fact you were otherwise engaged by a war that technically wasn’t a war until 2010. Thus assuming that the boy’s mother was a one night stand, or a casual no-strings partner, it is not likely that she would contact you, nor you her, unless she chose to use the child as leverage. In this instance, you knew nothing-“  
      John had tuned out much of Sherlock’s fabricated story as he made the tea. Once more he was at that stage where all he heard when Sherlock spoke was the subext of _punch me in the face_.  
      Sherlock hadn’t stopped until the boy had appeared at the table, a sandwich in his hand. When John set three, not two cups of tea on the table, he raised a brow. “And where have you been?”  
      ”Don’t get all paternal on me now,” the kid groaned between bites of his sandwich. “I mean, it’s not like I’ve even been born yet. You’re what? 45?”  
      ”Forty.”  
      Sherlock snickered. He actually snickered like a child. “Forty-two.”  
      ”I’ll show you forty-two, _Mr. I’m 83 and still look like a 35 year old git_!”  
      The older wizard seemed to beam at this perceived praise… even if it was backhanded. “I have an excellent bone structure, and the genetic material available during my embryonic development was quite-“  
      ”Oh shut it,” John said, dropping into a chair opposite with a groan. Toby just continued to eat his sandwich. Which he’d gotten from the cafe downstairs while Mrs. Hudson was bragging to Mrs. Turner that her married ones were looking after a very charming and sweet 13 year old.  
      He didn’t have the heart to correct the poor old dear. Because she’d bought him a sandwich.


	4. Chapter 4

The first month went by in a bit of a whirlwind of… dull. Toby slept until noon most days once the battle of the tea kettle had ended. He stayed up until nine in the morning, usually helping Sherlock with experiments or running errands for Mrs. Hudson. (He had assured her he knew how to box, and when all else failed he had a stun gun. John’s still not sure where he got the stun gun.)  
      But all of this changed on the 27th of July.  
      Sherlock had been making such a racket that just when Toby had started to pass out… He had to get up again to yell at him… And so did John.  
      ”John! Today is the day!”  
      ”Sher, I don’t-“  
      ”Oh of course you’ve forgotten. One month. The one month ban on cases has been lifted!”  
      ”It wasn’t exactly a ban…” John muttered. “Plus, it was your idea in the first place.”  
      Toby looked from one man, still dressed in his bedclothes, to the other who was wearing a rather nice black suit. It seemed retro to the boy, but still in keeping with the style he’d grown up with. “Yeah… What’s this now?”  
      Sherlock was beaming. Positively beaming. “Lestrade had been ordered not to contact us, namely me, about cases for exactly one month. It was my wedding gift to John.”  
      Toby was staring at him. “So…” The boy quickly calculated the dates. He had arrived on the 30th of June… One month free of cases… “Oh god! I showed up during your honeymoon! You… You were only married…”  
      ”Three days. Yes. Though it has been an enlightening month.”  
      Toby put a hand to his head, and John put a hot cup of something in the other as he sat down. “Oh dear lord… This… This is bad. This is not okay.” He stared into his cup, sniffing it. Coffee. Two days old at least. Good. That meant it was strong. “This is a whole truck load of NOT OKAY!” He downed the scalding liquid, noting the slight hint of sugar. Mmm… sugar.  
      Sherlock’s brow raised as John furrowed his brow in worry. “Why?” the army doctor asked, glancing at the nearest chair in case he may need to have a seat.  
      ”I…. I need to talk with Gran and Grandpa. Maybe Myc as well.” He jumped up, spilling the remaining coffee on the carpet and pacing around like Sherlock. The man himself was watching the boy carefully before the boy froze. “Think… think…. Damnit! I can’t think without insulting someone!”  
      John looked around before turning his attention to his husband. “That, we can help you with,” he said. Sherlock had already pulled out his phone and was searching through his contacts. Anderson was listed under _Dinophile_. He touched the screen and handed it over.  
      Toby took it with an annoyed look as if to say, _What the hell is that thing there?_ He touched it to his ear and waited. Two rings. Three rings.  
      ”He won’t answer. It’s your number,” John said, sitting on the arm of his favorite chair.  
      After a few moments, Toby’s face lit up in an evil Holmesian grin. “Hello, is this Anderson?” he asked sweetly. The grin grew wider. “Yes, about that. You’re a thick. You’re not just thick. You’re Thickety Thick, the thickest thick in all of Thickton, Thickania, on the continent of Thickonia. On the planet Thickerson. In the constellation of get your head out of your arse and stop Googling velociraptor porn.”  
      At first it was funny. Then it was annoying.  
      Then John gasped at the language, and was surprised that the man hadn’t hung up on him yet.  
      Then Sherlock smirked at the suggestions, and quietly told John it was because he’d charmed his phone, for Anderson’s number only, to never disconnect unless it was from this end of the line… Just in case he needed to fire a quick insult or two.  
      It was a proud moment for the not-yet parents of this boy who let loose a nice long string of insults before finally stating, in a nice calm voice, “…with Donnovan. I’m surprised she’s still got brain cells firing considering the fumes she must be inhaling nightly from all those floors she must be scrubbing! Why, I dare say your wife might be interrested to know you have your mistress dressing in her dinosaur suit when she’s away. Now put your boss on the phone because if Sherlock doesn’t get a case he’s going to drive us all bloody mad.”  
      He handed the phone to Sherlock, then cleared part of the table near the windows.  
      ”Oh…. that felt….. That felt so damn good,” the boy exclaimed, jumping and spinning in excitement halfway through clearing the space. “Oh it’s Christmas!”  
      John was flabberghasted. Sherlock jabbered away excitedly on the phone to Lestrade. The army doctor followed the boy who once the table had been partially cleared had climbed up on it, lay down on his back, and hung his head off the end.  
      ”What the-“  
      ”Not now, John,” he said, pressing his hands together above his chin. “I’m going to my-“  
      ”Not another ruddy Mind Palace…”  
      ”I was going to say top secret underground memory complex. Mind Palaces are soooo…. well. I can’t tell you how long ago. But when I’m born, you’ll know. Now silence! Brain work.”  
      Twenty minutes later John was dressed, Toby was still on the table thinking, and Sherlock was practically jumping. Ready to go check out the site of an amazingly dull sounding but still a case so it was better than nothing armed robbery turned murder. “Is it okay to just-“  
      ”He’ll be fine,” Sherlock said. “Probably won’t even notice we’re gone.”  
      ”Right…” he said uneasily. “Still, might want to have Mrs. Hudson look in on him…”  
      Toby listened as they shut the door behind them. Counted the familiar footsteps, though out of his time, on the seventeen stairs. He waited for the door downstairs to slam closed behind them in their excitement to be working on a case again.  
      He needed to be careful. He needed to consider the timeline. If every science fiction programme he’d watched with his dad as a child was anything to go by… He had to be very, VERY careful not to throw anything else off for the entire month of August…  
      And if he wanted his older siblings Hudson and Harriet (though he could do without her thank you very much) to ever be born… Well… He needed to find other things to occupy his time well away from the flat.  
      …And he had to keep a close eye on the milk.  
                                             **o0o**  
      The first two weeks of August were a bit of a blur of excitement. Sherlock and John took case after case. Toby would sit back and watch. Sometimes offer a fresh eye to the data or to help with an experiment. He even offered to help John type up the blog since it seemed like he was getting a bit behind with all the work Sherlock was having him do.  
      John had declined, saying he could always get back to it later.  
      At some point Mycroft had stopped by with a case, which Sherlock had refused outright. Sherlock knew it wasn’t because of a case that Mycroft had appeared. It was because of Toby. Of course it was Toby.  
      A quick, brief explanation of his presence was given after Mycroft had made it very clear that he wasn’t buying the illigitimate child routine, as he’d had John’s background very thoroughly checked before the first time they’d met. And then routinely screened after.  
      It wasn’t until Toby had asked to speak with Mycroft alone that Sherlock had decided the case was worth his time after all. John, being John, knew better than to try and get into the middle of that one. He’d learned years ago it was just easier to let the Holmes brothers be stubborn gits. They’d eventually sort themselves out. Or… Alternatively John would be turned into a hedgehog or Lestrade into a naked mole rat. That was just how things worked in their screwed up little world.  
      So, John was trying to get Sherlock to focus on the case his brother had brought while Toby had insisted he and Mycroft step downstairs to the cafe for a chat, much to Mycroft’s disdain.  
      After half an hour Toby returned with a sack full of sandwiches. He’d taken to chicken salad in the last few days. And he ate in silence as Sherlock sat absorbed in the file. John watched the boy from the corner of his eye as he worked alongside his husband. And all the while, Toby just watched, quietly eating and thinking. Mapping out what he was going to have to do at the end of the month… And how to fill his time between now and then.


	5. Chapter 5

One week left.  
       One week left and he still existed. He hadn’t messed anything up. It was going to be okay.  
       He’d asked Mycroft what to do when the time came. He’d asked and pleaded with him, and had even promised that when the time came, he would give him John’s special chocolate cake recipe that he hadn’t even created yet but would do for Sherlock’s 107th. And that it would be the most glorious cake Mycroft had ever had the privledge to put in his mouth.  
       But not yet.  
       So, Mycroft being the cake man that he is… had Toby swear a Wizard’s Oath. One he could never break. And so, Toby replied that when he was 17, he would give to Mycroft this recipe, but he could not give him the exact date without risking things.  
       Satisfied with the oath made, he had bought the boy as many sandwitches as he could carry in a plastic sack and was on his way.  
       And now, Toby was laying on his cot, head hanging off the end and his hands poised above his chin in deep thought. He would have to time things just right…  
       These thoughts he set aside. He still had a few days more to figure out how to erase himself from this time so as not to ruin things for later. Yet… to come up with a plan to assure his parents, his proper John and Sherlock, that he hadn’t just dissapeared off the Hogwarts Express. That he’d had… an incident that they themselves could not remember.  
       So instead he focused on what he had to do about his elder siblings.  
       Sherlock was nothing if not ritualistic. When it came to certain activities he followed the same method as if it were his religion. As far as anyone knew it probably was.  
       Firstly, it is a well known fact in his time that when Sherlock took any potions, he took them with milk…  
  
 **Milk supply steadily decreases. John uses only two teaspoons of milk per cup of tea. Average in half a cup for my cereal. One third cup for John’s. Sherlock has not eaten cereal. He takes his tea plain. Coffee black with two sugars. John takes nothing in his coffee. Used to take coffee with milk. Has not done so since Baskerville.  
       On average milk is bought once every three days without fail. The remaining milk is therefore used by Sherlock. No milk-based experiments have taken place since June 30. On nights when Sherlock goes to bed, three 8oz glasses of milk are drank exactly two hours prior.  
       Brief trips to the kitchen after subject has gone to bed resulting in the abandonment of tea and loss of appetite due to sounds emitted from bedroom.  
       Prior to marriage Sherlock took magical supressant potions. Primary side effect: inhibition of sex drive. - Fact.  
       March of 2016, supressants replaced with contraceptive. - Fact.  
       Hudson and Harriet Watson-Holmes born in March 2017. - Fact.  
       Conclusion…  
       Approximately 8 to 9 months prior to birth of first children, contraceptives failed.  
       Remaining query - Why did they fail? How did they fail?**

  
       ”Oh…” Toby’s face broke out into a grin. “Oh that’s… that’s just brilliant…” That’s it then. That’s exactly what he needed to do. No milk, Sherlock wouldn’t take his potions… But if he didn’t take them, he may use muggle means…  
       He kicked his legs up in the air and managed to propell himself up and forward. Hands quickly pressed against the floor and he kept himself upright for a few seconds before allowing his legs to come forward all of the way. One bare foot touched the floor, then the other before he pulled the rest of himself up, completing the awkward flip. Being small, he reminded himself, gave him advantages.  
       He knew what must be done. And he had to keep very quiet about it.  
       If he knew his father, and no one knew Sherlock better than his own children, he knew exactly where the supply was hidden. Quickly he went to his trunk and opened it, searching desperately for one of his school books. Once he’d found what he was looking for he swallowed back a triumphant laugh.  
       It was a good thing his best subject was Potions. Otherwise, this would never had worked in a million years.  
 **o0o**  
       Toby watched the milk supply closely for the next two days. He checked it before he left the flat in the morning. And then when he came home in the evening. He’d told John and Sherlock he had to run errands all day for Mrs. Hudson, and then offered to help out Mrs. Turner. That it was best if he didn’t spend a lot of time around. Risk putting things out of joint. John wasn’t entirely convinced. But he was glad to see the boy hadn’t been brought home by the police yet, so that was something at least.  
       But he’d kept a close eye on the milk. Offering to go buy more when Sherlock drank the very last drop. And he had, too. Just to be sure.  
       See, after he’d found Sherlock’s potions stash, exactly where he thought he would beneath the violin at the window. Underneath the floorboards. The one that creaked just slightly, but only when you stepped on it a certain way… But John wouldn’t know about it for years yet. Especially since that was, of course, where Sherlock kept his precious violin.  
       He’d anylized it. Carefully scrutinized it. Taking only the smallest of samples up to the lab turned guest room and checking it over using his own cauldron and his own equipment used for school. He’d cross referenced in his Advanced Potions book, as well as his herbology books. And a few extra he’d lifted from the Restricted Section of the school library… Just for some light summer reading.  
       And then he quite easily created a counter-potion. And laced it into the milk.  
       It was perfect.  
       And the best part… Harmless to anyone else. It was keyed to only react when met with certain other elements. Namely what Sherlock downed every time he and John went back to the bedroom for a little _private_ time.  
       The fate of his older sister and her twin secured, he was free to ponder again the options Mycroft had presented him with. Memory charms, of course. That was a given. But how… How would he go about providing evidence that he was not kidnapped, murdered, or had a bomb strapped to his chest in the middle of Prague? Because honestly, that time Hamish had been strapped to a bomb in the middle of Prague was a bit too much for John to handle. Especially with his PTSD. And especially since they were supposed to be having a crime-free family vacation. But mostly because Sherlock had decided Hamish covered in bombs would make an excellent Chistmas card for them to send to everyone on their very short list.  
       He was just thinking this over, in his customary position on the cot, head hanging off the edge, when there was a knock at the door.  
       ”Hmm…” he hummed. “Enter,” he said loudly. He narrowed his eyes, watching the door knob as it turned. Right. So it was John, not Sherlock. Sherlock habitually turned door knobs to the left for the sole purpose of catching anyone who noticed it. Hardly anyone ever did.  
       When the door opened, it was indeed John. His hair damp. Just from a shower. Wrapped in his favorite comfy green robe that to be honest, Toby hadn’t realized had ever been new or even in decent shape. Ever. The belt was cinched at the waist, but the boy could still see the plaid trousers beneath. “Hey,” he said.  
       Toby raised a brow. “Hey,” he said back.  
       ”Sherlock’s bored again and I thought we’d watch a movie. Get his mind off of things for a few minutes. Then maybe some dim sum?”  
       ”I don’t eat chinese.”  
       ”Oh…” he said, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his robe. “Well… pizza?”  
       ”Not hungry.”  
       ”You need to eat Toby. You’re too skinny.”  
       ”I am the ideal weight for someone of my stature, thank you very much.”  
       ”But not your age.”  
       ”If we went by my age, then my BMI would be disproportionate to what is healthy for my height. You are a doctor. I am a child prodigy. We both know the BMI is based on height and weight, and _not_ age, your argument is invalid. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m thi-“  
       John squared his shoulders and pulled his hands from his pockets to rest them on his hips. A firm, stern stare down at the boy who’s head was upside down and looking back at him indignantly. An expression that the boy had seen so many times as a child that his siblings had always called simply… **The Captain**.  
       At last, he sighed. “Fine. But I don’t eat chinese. I am fond of curry, though. If you can manage it.”  
       ”I’m not a restaurant.”  
       ”But you’re ordering from one.”  
       ”Not the point. Be downstairs in twelve minutes. And be cheerful about it. Sherlock’s getting depressed and I don’t want him to get up at 3 in the morning with that damned violin.”  
       In the end, the three of them were piled up in front of the telly watching the film version of _The Hobbit: There and Back Again_. Sherlock complained that he’d seen it much too often, and that it was rather long. Toby was enthralled by the Blueray player, as such a thing was an antique by the time he came along in the world.  
       That, and he was amazed by how much Bilbo Baggins looked like John. It was eerie…  
       Toby did give in and eat chinese. Though he didn’t eat much. Just the rice. Because you can’t really mess up rice too much.  
  **o0o**  
       Mycroft had been by again.  
       Well… sort of. It was more like Toby had been walking down the street running an errand for Mrs. Hudson when the black car pulled up to the curb and a rather attractive woman stepped out, eyes down and staring into her phone.  
       He sighed. Yup, it was definately his uncle’s style.  
       ”Angelo Tobias Watson-Holmes,” she said.  
       Toby smirked. Even when there was no information on him, he still couldn’t get one over on old Mycroft. So, he climbed into the car. Sinking back into the black leather seats, he looked down at his trainer clad feet to see they didn’t even touch the floor. Well, that was… unsettling.  
       ”So, what’s your name today?”  
       ”Pardon?”  
       ”Maggie? Julie? Anthea? Banana split?” he asked with a cheeky grin. “Bobert?”  
       ”Hmm….” she hummed at him. “Cassandra.”  
       ”There’s a Cassandra in my house. Can’t stand the girl. Always fawning over Steve Stark in Ravenclaw. Ugh. Well, that was second term. First term she was chasing Tony Rogers from Gryffindor around like a lost puppy.”  
       ”Hmm…” she hummed again, tapping her Blackberry.  
       ”So, how’s Greg?” he asked, watching for her reaction. Why pass up this rare opportunity, being in the past and able to anylize everyone in his family’s earlier days.  
       He saw her jaw clench as she willed her face into submission. “He is well,” she said, but the words were empty. She really REALLY didn’t want to talk about it. He knew, of course. He knew all about Cassandra. Anthea or Julie or Maggie or whatever she’d call herself from day to day. Like all of his uncle’s assistants over his many years of political service they’d all found his power… attractive. Toby gave her back that placid, calm look despite smirking on the inside. He turned his head to watch out the window as the cityscape changed. He was, he knew, being taken to an undisclosed location in a run-down part of the city. A very quiet, very private place. An old factory perhaps. A warehouse.  
       ”Good,” he said, tapping his fingers impatiently on his knee. “Good. And does resentment come standard in every personal assistant or is that just the form in which your jealousy manifested after learning your employer would never return your unrequited love? Only, it’s not love. It’s lust. If you were to meet him on the street, not knowing the strings he pulls and the doors his very name opens, would you want to throw yourself on him so badly? Would you still lower the cleavage of your dresses and raise the hems on your skirts in the useless hopes of gaining his attentions,” he paused, but kept watching out the window as, sure enough, the scenery became more dilapitated. “Despite knowing for a fact he’d rather spend his nights sharing a bed with a man you feel is so very far beneath him.”  
       Her carefully manicured nails tapped the phone angrily. But there were no other outward signs of her emotions.  
       ”What?” he asked her, and was well aware she could see his profile from the corner of her eye. So he smiled. It was positively smug. “I’d have thought working for Mycroft and periodically upsetting Sherlock’s apple cart would have desensitized you to our particular affinity for deducing everything and everyone around us… Or perhaps you’re just not as tough skinned as you had believed yourself to be.” He tapped his knee again as the car came to a stop outside a crumbling church. “Oh, lovely. I’d always wondered whether or not Mycroft would burst into flames if he ever stepped into one of these.”  
        _Cassandra_ opted to remain in the vehicle with the driver, who was all but cackling at the boy’s harsh words of observation.  
       So, it was in a crumbling church Toby was informed that Mycroft had someone covertly go through his things while the three occupants of 221B were out the week before. That he knew his name, that he knew how long he had to wait for his cake recipe, and that he also knew the boy had insisted on fetching the milk. Even that the boy had gotten his hands somehow on a rather detailed journal of a former potions master from his school’s library, one that had only just been discovered in the Slytherin dungeons the year before. And it was resting in the library of Hogwarts still.  
       It was all very impressive to Toby, who had known his uncle to be only slightly more brilliant than his father (though to say such would earn him an angry glare and John would have to put up with Sherlock moping about the flat for eight months moaning about Mycroft and being bored), because it appeared that Mycroft had done a majority of the legwork himself.  
       Everyone knew Mycroft hated legwork.  
       Mycroft even openly admitted that he hated legwork.  
       Though in this instance, he did it all the same.  
       Why?  
       Because he’d promised to help Toby in return for the best cake recipe in all of creation.  
       And Mycroft was not going to pass up an opportunity like that. Not in a thousand lifetimes.  
       So when Toby had climbed back into the car, and _Cassandra_ refused to look at him, it was with a scrap of paper detailing a varriation on a specific memory charm Hermione Granger had used during the war. Mycroft had found it and tested it himself. And he’d even given the boy a box of vials with further instructions on what to do with them.  
       All he had to do was wait for the night of August 30th. Just a few more days, really.  
       He was dropped off two blocks from Baker Street. The errand he had originally been on forgotten as he bid a very bitter _Cassandra_ farewell.  
  **o0o**  
       August 30th.  
       John and Sherlock had just finished up a rather dull case. But they’d needed the money. The rent was past due and Mrs. Hudson, though she was a kind old bird, was a bit peeved that by the fourth month they still hadn’t made good. She said she’d have said something sooner, but didn’t want to disturb their honeymoon period more than necessary.  
       Toby had offered to donate a few pounds to the cause, but after checking the dates on his notes it was obvious they wouldn’t be good to place into circulation for quite a long time yet. Especially considering the fact that it was King William stamped on the currency rather than good old Lizzy Two. John had patted him on the shoulder and offered to take him along to do the shopping while Sherlock came down from his post-case high.  
       The boy had declined politely, not wanting to be too far from the flat. He had to keep an eye on things. Make sure that his plans weren’t uncovered. Make sure that Sherlock didn’t go snooping around more than usual in his post-case excitement.  
       But most of all, he wanted just a little more time to spend at the flat. To burn it further into his memory because this time the next year he knew it would be different. Cleaner. Quieter, for a little while at least, and calmer. Baby-proofed for the next twenty some odd years. And he was the only one who could see it this way. The only one who, when his parents would talk about the old days, and dive into nostalgia, he could picture 221B like this. The holes in the wall. The holes in the wall. The equipment dragged out and on the kitchen table (because he’d taken the lab room for his own). Even… Mrs. Hudson. That kindly old woman who was their landlady, not their housekeeper, who always had looked after them. Fretted over them and made them cakes and cookies and tea. Because he’d never known this woman. Only had a few grainy photographs to go by, and not even the stories of her could do this woman justice.  
       No.  
       He stayed at the flat while John did the shopping. And he sat on a stool at the table, handing Sherlock slides and tea and thumbs. And he watched the corner of the man’s lips curl slightly into a smile as he made observations of what Sherlock was doing. Pointed out what to the detective was so obvious but to the rest of the world was the most brilliant thing ever.  
       And as he cleaned up after, because Sherlock’s experiments, especially those with the thumbs, were always messy. And the man always left John to clean up after. And he laughed and he pointed out things that John would normally point out.  
       As he did all of these things, he felt a pang of jealousy of children who were older than himself but not even yet born. Because they got to have _this_ Sherlock and _this_ John all to themselves. And he, the youngest, the smallest had been given the older versions. Still brilliant, still amazing and caring and kind… but… different. Mellowed. Seasoned.  
       Even… almost suffocating.  
       But not these two. These men were always dashing about. Always working. Always exciting. Throwing themselves into the Work with everything they had.  
       And suddenly… Toby didn’t want to go back. Sod what was supposed to happen. Sod the unwritten but always known laws of time. Sod it all.  
       He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up from where he stood on a stool at the sink. Up into the same eyes he saw in the mirror every day. That he saw when he was home and did or said something fantastic and brilliant and clever. “You can’t stay here,” he said.  
       There was more, but it was never said. It didn’t need to be said. Because just as he had been trained to do since the cradle, he could pick apart his not-yet father’s face and read him as easily as Sherlock read everyone else. And Toby nodded. He swallowed and reminded himself that he had to go. He had to do it tonight. And he had to be very, very careful about it.  
       Sherlock nodded and handed him a beaker. “Use the lemon scented. The green one leaves-“  
       ”I know. You hate kiwi.”  
       ”I was going to say streaks.”  
       Toby gave a weak smile as he took the beaker and squeezed one of the seven different brands and colors of dish soap into it. “But you were thinking about how disgusting you find kiwi. Especially the artificially created scent.”  
       John had come home nearly an hour later with the shopping. Sherlock and Toby shared a look when the doctor talked about his latest row with the machine. That night John had actually cooked. Sort of. He had found a family sized box of lasagna and decided to give it a go since it was on sale.  
       Sherlock ate it because he didn’t want John nagging him. Not when he’d been in such a pleasant mood all day.  
       Toby ate it, even though he didn’t want to. He sat listening to Sherlock and John argue over one of their unsolved cases. Then about _The Speckled Blonde_ , a case that now he understood was one they had argued about long before his own lifetime. And would probably continue to argue about for the rest of their lives.  
       So he didn’t say anything. He ate his dinner without complaint. And he listened.  
       Because he didn’t want to ruin this last evening that no one else would share. He wanted to capture it and lock it away in his underground top secret mind base forever.  
  **o0o**  
       He sat on his cot, back pressed against the wall, waiting for all signs of life to cease in the flat below for the night. His trunk was packed and shrunken small enough to carry by a short strap he’d affixed to each end. To carry like a bag. The animal cage where his pet hedgehog Martin slept was sitting atop it. The box Mycroft had given him, full of vials was in front of him, and he dangled the last strand of memory, glowing brightly at the tip of his wand, into the remaining vial.  
       This was how he would tell his parents where he’d gone. What he’d done. This was how he’d be able to let them know he was safe and not taken from them by some bitter enemy. Not strapped to a rocket, or wrapped up in semtex somewhere on the continent. Not taken by the yakuza because the two old fools hadn’t given up on a lead when they should have known better. (That had happened once, when Hamish was seven and he only one year old. Though then Hamish had nearly deduced his kidnappers to death.)  
       This last memory he shook off the end of his wand, it was the only one where he was alone. Completely, utterly alone with his thoughts. He knew he shouldn’t really include it, knowing that if it were known too soon then he could undo everything he’d done. Undo his summer, undo his hard work to ensure his presence hadn’t screwed up the eventual arrival of his eldest siblings.  
       He’d sat in front of the mirror when he’d spoken, so that he didn’t feel like a git talking to the air. He’d apologized for what he was to do. Explaining in great detail, for John’s benefit, that it had to be done. Sherlock, of course, would understand immediately without the extra details. But he knew John always liked things in plain English.  
       And when he shook the last memory, the last glowing string into the last vial, he put in the stopper, placed it in the velvet lined box, and snapped the lid closed. He looked down at his hands, making sure they were steady. He went over the memory charm in his mind over and over again to make sure he had it correct. It wasn’t a complete obliviation, Mycroft had assured him. So long as it was spoken clearly and correctly, it could be targeted to a specific memory. A specific subject.  
       First he had to cover his tracks. He had to start with the cot. It was shrunken and placed into the pocket of his jeans. Then he had to carefully, quietly move his things downstairs to the door. Muttering a silencing charm on his feet and his belongings, he carried them quickly down the 17 steps. When he came back up and let himself into the flat proper, he slipped as fast as he could into the kitchen and checked the milk out of habit. None had been removed since the last he’d checked. That meant no activity this night. All was silent. All was quiet. He could be quick about it then.  
       Without a second thought he went confidently towards John and Sherlock’s bedroom door. The adrenaline pumping through his tiny frame was high. He had to hurry. He had to do it before his confidence left him.  
       He didn’t realize until after he’d pointed his wand and cast the memory charm that there was only one body in the bed.  
       He hadn’t noticed that the light in the bathroom was on when he’d passed it.  
       That the bedroom door had been left open a small crack.  
       And when he thought his job done, and his quiet feet carried him almost to the front door again, he heard a small cough behind him.  
       Toby froze where he stood, hand clenching the wand in it as his mind panicked. Unable to speak, unable to think beyond the single phrase _bloody hell bloody hell bloody hell he’s gonna kill me._  
       ”I was under the impression that you are still underage and therefore not allowed to perform wand magic outside of school.”  
       Toby swallowed hard and slowly turned to face him. Standing there looking back into the same eyes as his own. Looking back at the man wearing an old army t-shirt, wrong side out and much too big, over a pair of soft bamboo sleep trousers. A soft gray. Like his eyes. Their eyes.  
       ”My birthday was this month. I don’t… I can use…” He didn’t bother to finish. Because he knew that Sherlock knew what that meant.  
       The consulting detective nodded towards the wand clutched tightly in the boy’s hand. “You may want to have me fall asleep first,” he said. “Less risk of my Mind Palace getting too scattered when the information is deleted.”  
       Toby swallowed hard and gave a nod. “I’m sorry,” he said as if it would change anything.  
       Sherlock just gave a nod and turned, walking to the sofa and throwing himself on it dramatically. Waiting patiently with eyes closed. He was breathing slowly, calmly.  
       From where he stood near the door, Toby raised his wand.  
       ”Be sure to lock up before you go. And don’t forget to put a charm on Mrs. Hudson, otherwise this is all for nothing.”  
       He nodded and licked his lips, pulling the sleeping spell he’d learned in school from its shelf in his top secret mind base. He watched as sleep settled over the body on the sofa. Sprawled out in an ungaingly fashion. But he didn’t have time to waste. He’d practiced the sleeping spell in school, but it wasn’t one he was all that proficient at, and it never lasted long.  
       With as much confidence as he could muster, he quietly whispered, just loud enough for it to be effective, the spell Mycroft had given him. And he prayed that it worked because he couldn’t stay around to find out. _“Delens omnia vestigia Toby,”_ came the whispered words, the latin rolling off his tongue easily. Once he knew the magic had settled, he quickly left the flat, locking the door behind him.  
       Downstairs his silent feet hurried, to 221A. After a quick lockpicking spell he snuck in and cast the same charm on Mrs. Hudson, just as Sherlock had reminded him. Her door, too, he locked back before fleeing the building into the night.  
       He hurried, his trunk bouncing on his hip from the strap hanging across his small body. His hand clutching the handle of poor Martin’s cage. And the other holding the handle on the top of the wooden box full of memories. He trudged three blocks on foot, then took the tube as close to Scotland Yard as he could, then legged it the rest of the way where a black car was waiting. Waiting for him. And waiting for his not-yet uncle Greg to get off work.  
       When he drew close to the car, the back passenger door opened and the familiar not-yet uncle Mycroft stepped out. “I see you managed to leave without much trouble.”  
       He nodded quietly.  
       ”You do realize that someone in this time must remember you, so that the box may find its way to your parents at the right moment. And to take you to the train station on September 1st.”  
       Again he nodded.  
       ”Have you decided then, who it will be.”  
       Toby looked past Mycroft to the man walking across the parking lot towards them. Tired and wary from a long day’s work. “I have,” he said.  
       Mycroft raised a brow, noticing the way the boy’s eyes shifted focus before hearing the footsteps approaching the car. “I see,” he said, giving a small nod of agreement. “Excellent choice, young Angelo.”  
       Mycroft tapped the driver’s window with the tip of his umbrella. The trunk of the car opened, and the boy moved to place his belongings in the trunk, then peered into the back seat of the car. “You will ride in the front with Dimitri. I will discuss the matter of your stay with Greg on the way home.”  
       Toby nodded and trudged to the front passenger side of the car. He could feel Lestrade giving him an odd look before Mycroft murmured in his ear.  
       The glass partition remained up, dividing the front and the back as Dimitri drove in silence.  
       But that was alright. Toby really wasn’t up for conversation.  
     **o0o**  
       August 31st was a quiet day at 12 Grimmauld Place.  
       Toby kept to himself in the guest room, mentally mapping out the task ahead of him. Reliving in his mind his entire ride on the Hogwarts Express just a few short months earlier. Pinpointing the important moments where his reality had shifted. Marking out the scenery outside the windows so that he would know the exact spot where he had passed from his present into the past.  
       He had also been allowed the use of Mycroft’s personal pensieve to immerse himself in the memory of that train ride. To take notes and plan out exactly what must be recreated on this train ride. Because he wouldn’t have a second chance until June 30th 2017.  
       Though, he had looked into time travel spells and rituals. Those, however, only worked to take one backward in time. Not forward. And Mycroft had been quick to point out that Time Tuners were unpredictable. If you were just one turn off… just one, you could end up looking at dinosaurs. Or standing on the wasteland of a dead Earth.  
       So no, he had to aproach this scientifically. Treat it as an experiment.  
       That night, Greg had come to his room for a talk. Mycroft had told him it was best if the boy explained what he needed done. Especially since Mycroft himself would not remember anything about him. No one that mattered would. Save the inspector.  
       ”Why me?” he had asked, sitting on the end of the bed facing the boy. “We’ve only just met.”  
       Toby nodded. “It’s like… It’s like that show dad likes. That really old timey show with the big blue space box thing. Police box, I think.”  
        _“Doctor Who?”_  
       ”Yeah, that’s the one. He made us watch it when we were kids… Anyway. The alien bloke’s always saying that time can be re-written. My being here can do that. So my par… John and Sherlock can’t remember anything about me. They might have… questions. Fuzzy edges. I need someone who does know I was here to fill in gaps. Tell them whatever they need to hear to fill them in. I dunno… a case with child trafficking or a homeless orphan on the run from drug lords. Whatever fits the situation. The same with Myc, though to a lesser degree.”  
       Lestrade nodded, following along. “Yeah… but that doesn’t-“  
       ”Because I’ve only just met you. After tomorrow you won’t see me again for another 13 years. This box of mine has to be delivered, by someone who knows why it’s important, on the very day that I dissapeared. It’s the evidence of where I’ve gone, what I’ve done here. I don’t want my parents to worry.” He pushed the box of memories towards him. “And Mycroft can’t see what’s inside. He can’t see any of this. I know you’re the only one he trusts, and he doesn’t dig too much into your business. Plus, it’s charmed so it won’t open until a specific time and date anyway. And even then, only when Sherlock opens it.”  
       ”You’ve really thought of everything, haven’t you?”  
       Toby nodded. “After my brother, you’re the only person I trust more than my parents.”  
       It was a lie, but the man had nodded and accepted his words.  
       Toby took a nap after that, knowing after Lestrade had gone that his box would fall into Mycroft’s hands in the year 2041. However, the box would remain safe in the bottom of the closet in the master bedroom after that. He remembered seeing it the summer he turned 13, and Mycroft had told him it was locked. He’d told him Greg had left it to him when he died, but he didn’t know what was inside it. He was left with instructions on what to do with it, when to do it, and just the old, battered wooden box.  
       But at least he knew that between now and when he himself would discover the odd box, it was looked after and protected.  
       He had spent the night napping and working. Making sure all of his things were together. Played with his pet hedgehog who was used to roaming all of his parents’ building rather than just one small and slightly dangerous room. But Martin didn’t seem to mind. He just liked to sit in the boy’s lap and sleep. Or run around in circles for a bit.  
       When the clock on the nightstand told him Mycroft was due to start stirring in half an hour, he gathered up his things again and packed them away. He put Martin back in his cage and tidied up the room to leave no trace that he was even in it.  
       He met Greg down in the kitchen, and the man had taken his things outside for him while he did what he had to do.  
       Mycroft had groaned in his sleep afterwards, but nothing else had indicated that Toby had bothered the man’s slumber.  
       Together the boy and the inspector were able to flag down a cab on the high street and they took it to the train station. It would be hours yet before boarding for the Hogwarts Express would begin. So the time was filled with crummy snacks, hot and disgusting train station coffee, and stories about John and Sherlock that the boy had heard thousands of times… But enjoyed more now that they seemed so new and exciting.  
 **o0o**  
 _ **30th June, 2045**_

  
       John and Sherlock were about to leave the flat when it happened. They were running late already because two certain nymphs had decided to have a row all day. John had been forced to play peacemaker. Which is why by the time anyone realized they had to leave to pick Angelo up from the train station, Hamish was ready to hex his father in frustration.  
       And then, it happened.  
       When Sherlock had yanked open the door of the B level with a growl, he crashed right into his elder brother Mycroft.  
       ”No time for you now, brother,” Sherlock spat. “Late.”  
       ”Angelo is-“  
       ”Angelo can wait just a little longer,” Mycroft said, holding out the box. “I was instructed to give you this.”  
       Sherlock growled again, trying to push past but Mycroft was having none of it.  
       ” _Greg_ ,” he started. That caused Sherlock to stop dead in his tracks. “Wanted you to have this for some reason. On this exact date, at this exact moment.”  
       Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to his husband and middle child. Hamish looked away, still clearly angry. John shrugged in confusion before adding, “We really need to get going. I don’t want him trying to get a cab alone with all that stuff. And the tube’s too dangerous.”  
       ”John, you gave him boxing lessons. I taught him how to kill a man with his thumbs. And Hamish gave him a stun gun last Christmas. I’d be more worried about the other passengers than I would about Angelo.”  
       Mycroft coughed, bringing the attention back to himself. “The box, Sherlock,” he said.  
       Despite his age, Sherlock huffed like a child and rolled his eyes. Arms open. The box was placed in it, and the rusted latch clicked for the first time in 29 years. Mycroft stared at it, hiding his amazement. “Well, it’s certainly never done that before.”  
       ”We can look at it later.”  
       John’s words were ignored as Sherlock opened the lid to see a yellowed envelope sitting on top of the box’s contents. The handwriting was neat and small… just like the owner. He recognized it instantly. “How… How long did he have this box?”  
       ”How old are Harriet and Hudson?”  
       ”Th… That’s impossible!” John exclaimed after Sherlock had read the note and passed it on to his husband. “This has got to be a mistake.”  
       ”No. He left me this box and,” he reached into his coat to remove another letter. This one written in the chicken scratch scrawl of D.I. Lestrade. “These instructions when he passed. I am curious to know what he had been keeping so securely.”  
       Sherlock was looking into the box, carrying it back away from the door and through the livingroom. John had passed the letter over to Hamish, who scanned it quickly and confirmed that it was indeed his younger brother’s handwriting, though the contents of the letter were hard to believe. “Well… this explains why he kept asking me how to repair dad’s old army issue watch,” he said, dropping the letter on the nearest table surface.  
       ”Brother, I require the use of a pensieve,” Sherlock said when he’d set the box down. He’d pulled out a vial marked with a very clear, very large number 1 on the glass. Inside it the bright blue glow of a very old memory.  
       John peeled off his coat and tossed it over the back of his chair with a sigh. “Bloody hell…” he said, resigning himself to a long night with no sleep. “I need tea.”  
 **o0o**  
 _ **2nd September, 2045**_

  
       He had been surprised to find his textbooks for his 7th year waiting for him in the dorms.  
       He’d been surprised that his recreation of the experiment had actually worked.  
       He’d also been surprised to discover that the Aussie girl, Natasha Burkhart, had also dissapered. Though she had been found… No one had been able to retrieve her. Even if they could, they wouldn’t be able to. Not unless they wanted to delete Margaret Thatcher from muggle history by returning her mother back to her proper place and time.  
       What Angelo Tobias Watson-Holmes was _**NOT**_ surprised about was his mail at breakfast.  
       For the first time in his life, he had been the recipient of a Howler. And it wasn’t Sherlock’s angry baritone that had erupted from it as he had expected. Oh no… it was far worse… It was the voice of his father. A hedgehog made of jumpers and jam and kittens and rage. But right now, mostly rage. And jam. And when that Howler was opened at the Hufflepuff table at breakfast, poor little Angelo was reminded of every little thing he’d done that summer and how poor Mrs. Hudson kept asking him about some poor lost little boy and they’d all thought she’d finally started to go a bit senile.  
       At the end, however, he was thanked by Sherlock for always remembering to get the milk that summer.  
  
~Fin.~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The memory charm Angelo/Toby used - _Delens omnia vestigia Toby_. It translates to _Erase all traces of Toby_. It’s latin. We used the google translation thingy.
> 
> 2) We were having trouble with year/time continuity to begin with. And Sherlock and John’s wedding day was presenting a problem… That was, until we looked up what the last day of a Hogwarts School Year falls on. The last day of June. So that helped greatly. And we were able to figure out from there the birth months for all of the children, so that was also a plus.
> 
> 3) Angelo chose to go by Toby, short for Tobias because he did not want to influence his parents’ choice in name. He also did not want to give an exact number of children in the beginning because he didn’t want to give too much away about the future.
> 
> 4) Angelo’s idea of a mobile phone is very different from the 2016 versions. Think of an iPhone. Now imagine it thinner and smaller. Say… 1 inch by 2 inches. Oh, and it is video rather than voice only. Texting is basically a video with subtitles rather than a voice track.


End file.
